


Norbury

by Missus_Write



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "lol how can I stress myself out today", Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I abandoned this on my laptop for like 8 months, M/M, also they make sandwiches, and boom here it is, and then today was like:, but then some fluff, god save us, i can't tag, john sitting on sherlock's lap to kiss him is my kink (TM), okay so I wrote this directly after tld, or write in general lollll, or write summaries, they finally talk about sherlock's scars, wayyyyyyy too much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missus_Write/pseuds/Missus_Write
Summary: It's a normal day at 221B, except it's not really. John's back, and Sherlock has been making pained noises when he thinks John isn't paying attention. But John is. He always has been.((They make sandwiches and then talk about feelings.))





	Norbury

**Author's Note:**

> kay so I've worked really hard on this but I can't write make out scenes and my kink is big time angst and john being sad about hurting Sherlock good luckkkk

Sherlock is not paying attention to him or the outside world, lost in his mind. If John gets close enough he can hear the gears turning. Not that he ever gets that close, on purpose. But this time, he had heard a little noise coming from the soft, subdued form of his-- his friend, and it was simply in his nature to go check on the man. Especially after everything that had just happened with them (both to and between them and in their own separate lives). He’d heard it all the way from the kitchen, for chrissake, where he’d been reading a newspaper and sipping a lukewarm cup of tea. This was incredibly unusual, this little whimper, unless Sherlock had started making noises while in his mind palace during the time they’d been estranged. Or while he was away, after the fall… Perhaps the drugs had somehow changed him this way? The withdrawal? Or had John simply not been paying attention?

What a sad thought that was.

He’d gone over to check on him, to see that he was still breathing and whole and then continue on with this nonsense of a day. This was perhaps the, what? Second time he’d been at 221B without physical obligation since Mary died? And already he was slipping back into these routines, taking care of Sherlock without a question asked. Not like Sherlock would ever ask, anyway.

John doesn’t notice anything outright unusual. Posture a little strained, as though something is pinching him. Fingers steepled stiffly over his plush lips. (He would not dwell on the fact that he’d thought of those lips as ‘plush’.) His eyelids stretched thinly over the rapidly moving pools beneath them. If this man were in any way an ordinary person (which John was starting to suspect more and more), he would hazard to say he looked a upset and unhappy, as though trapped in a nightmare. 

The push he gives isn’t really that hard, but it’s enough to make Sherlock jolt out of his head with a terrible grunt. He didn’t used to do that, either. In the past he was always only ever annoyed that he’d been brought out before he was ready. But just then, he’d made a sound, a guttural thing that rang more like a hurt animal than an annoyed detective.

“Sherlock....” John wants to offer him a sandwich, an apology, tea. Something to relieve the pressure inside his chest, something to make that sad little ghost on Sherlock’s face go away.

He sighs before John can make any such move, any raw emotions being swept away by a mask of annoyance.“What do you want, John? What was so important I must be removed from what is sure to be proved far more important tasks?”

At that, John can’t help but roll his eyes. “‘Far more important things,’ I’m sure. More important than eating something? You haven’t eaten all morning, and with the withdrawal you’re going through I’d say it’s pretty important to get some food in you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in return but, remarkably, makes no protest. He rises from his seat with another little grunt, one that’s just too forceful to be only from heaving himself from the chair, but John doesn’t say anything about it and neither does Sherlock. 

It’s surprising little victories like this that tell John that Sherlock is not the man he once was. Even after he’d come back from his two-year ‘holiday’, he’d still been stubborn and contradictory, refusing food and Lestrade’s inquiries (and John’s care, what little of it he’d offered). It was far tamer than he was before the-- before the fall, but this version of Sherlock was almost foreign to him. This man that hurt (is that what it was?) and played with Rosie and ate when John asked him to and took long naps on the couch. John felt a soft, heavy twang in his chest at the possibility that his angered actions -- his distance, his betrayal, his marriage -- had changed Sherlock, even if for the better.

“What would you like to eat?”

“Ehh,” he says distractedly, flying through the kitchen with his billowing dressing gown preparing to make a fresh kettle. “Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”

“Okay with a ham sandwich?”

“Do we have pickles?”

“Check for yourself.”

Sherlock moves over to the fridge once the water’s been set to boil and roots around in the back. The experiments have, blessedly, been designated to the bottom drawer except for special circumstances, and even then they are labeled and sectioned off from the rest of the food. 

“We do. A ham sandwich would be lovely, John, thank you. Is there anything you would like with your sandwich?”

Something about Sherlock’s politeness throws John off even further -- he’s glad that the other man’s being so pleasant, but.... It makes him yearn for past times, when his friend was utterly unapologetic towards him. With all that was in between them, could Sherlock ever forgive himself? Or even just...allow himself to be as open with John as he was before?

John starts slowly making the sandwiches, careful to layer Sherlock’s in the precise strata that always pleased him. Bread, five slices of lunch meat ham, three pickles, two more slices of ham, spurt of mustard, bread. He puts it on one of their less-than-nice plates, adds a full pickle and some crisps, and goes over to the table where he is now sat, reading an online article about the effect of gallium dust on gold necklaces. The detective is wearing glasses on the very edge of his nose and a tiny bit of gray shines on the sides of his ears, only visible in this direct light under the lamp.

“Here’s your lunch,” he says, placing the meal beside his laptop and trying not to stare at the lovely color in his hair or the oddly handsome reading glasses on his face. So when did that happen? He certainly would have remembered something like this...

The detective looks up from the laptop to see John’s intrigued little smirk. Sherlock squirms a little, obviously a little embarrassed by the glasses but he’s not so proud or vain to try to hide them now that John has seen them. He pushes them farther up his nose and clears his throat lightly. “Thank you, John.”

John’s about to ask -- more like tease, really, and if Mrs. Hudson were here she might even say he was flirting -- when the kettle starts to whistle. Sherlock pushes away from the table quickly, apparently eager to avoid John’s impending interrogation.

“Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sugar?”

John eyes him curiously, unsure if Sherlock is pulling his leg or really asking. The idea that he might not remember makes something inexplicable hurt inside his chest. “You know the answer to that, don’t you?”

He smiles, a small thing, and tosses his hair away from the corners of his glasses. “Of course I do.”

John snorts a little and continues bustling around the kitchen. “Then what was the point of asking, you arse?”

“Had to make sure it hadn’t changed.”

This is said with far less mirth than before, the corners of his mouth dropping down as he fills two mugs and drops the necessary sweeteners into each. Sherlock moves with the automation that only comes from memorization and routine, dropping and stirring and floating as if John had never left 221B.

“Well, you know me. Creature of habit.”

He looks back up at John with silver eyes, a sharpness to his squint that is only magnified through the glasses. “Do I know you?”

John laughs nervously, caught by the other man’s intense gaze. “That’s a silly question.”

“Mm, not as silly as I used to think it was.”

That’s probably as close to a resolution as this conversation is going to get and it answers none of John’s questions, but it’s also almost a compliment so he won’t push any further. Sherlock thinks he’s a mystery, and that’s got to make him special.

The detective turns away from John and back to his laptop and absentmindedly nibbles through his sandwich. The conversation is, effectively, over.

John goes over to his side of the table -- which, if he were a braver man, would be the seat directly beside Sherlock’s but is currently at the other end -- and begins to eat on his sandwich as well. The silence isn’t uncomfortable on Sherlock’s end, as he clearly has delved back into his own world and doesn’t mind John’s presence, but John can’t help himself from feeling a little strange.

He’s grateful to be back in 221B. The flat he shared with Mary is haunted with hollow silence and bittersweet memories. Any time he spends there is too melancholic to truly be healthy, yet coming back to 221B has been more of a challenge than he ever thought it could be. He doesn’t want to forget Mary and act like she was never there or changed things or lived, and returning to his old flat with his old friend and essentially to his life before Mary -- with the welcome addition of Rosie -- feels like he’s betraying her in some way, even if she likely would have encouraged it. Not to mention, whatever he’s been feeling around Sherlock -- this weird, unfailing pitted sensation that flusters him everytime he sees the detective -- can’t be in any way appropriate of a man in mourning.

Sherlock makes another little noise as he shifts to reach the pickle jar left on the counter, and John’s guilty curiosity is insatiable once more. What are these noises? “Hey, Sherlock,” he calls, too loudly in the pleasant silence.

He turns to observe John once more after he’s gotten the pickle jar in his arms. It looks like he put in a physical effort to avoid making that grunt again, which is so startling John’s almost bursting with the need to interrogate. He holds himself back, though, because watching Sherlock close up again is in no way an acceptable consequence of obtaining answers. John’s willing to ask, to attempt to sate his curiosity and see if Sherlock is willing to be open like that, but if his satisfaction comes at the price of Sherlock’s comfort -- or, heaven forbid, their friendship -- he would never bring up the subject again for as long as he could.

“Why… Why do you-- Are you okay?"

He raises an eyebrow and loosens his hold on the pickle jar. “Why am I okay?”

“No, I mean -- are you alright? You’ve been so- polite recently, to me. And whenever we are around other people. And-- you’ve been making noises.”

“I thought it was socially appropriate to be polite to people? Expected, even. And almost all forms of communication involve making noises, so congratulations for that observation.” Sherlock’s agitation begins to infect his voice, screwing up the skin of his forehead like a cloth. “For years, all I hear is that I am arrogant and rude and a horrible person but as soon as I acknowledge this and start to change people ask me what’s wrong!” Sherlock struggles with the lid of the pickle jar, frustration making his grip slip.

“I’m serious Sherlock!” John says, sincerity straining his face. “It’s wonderful that you’re changing but I’m worried about you! You don’t have to be polite around me; we’re closer than that.” 

There’s a slight pause as John catches his breath and wonders just how true that last part is.

“Do you not feel comfortable enough with me to be yourself?” he asks, and again there is a pause where all Sherlock can do is stare at him, owlishly. “You’ve never been afraid to be an arse around me, and I’ve always been okay with it because not only did you have your limits it also meant that you were settling in around me, that you saw me as a friend.”

“You didn’t used to like the idea of being my friend.”

John scoffs. “Because I’d never had a friend like you. You were abrasive, and I hadn’t learned my way around you yet, and everyone we met didn’t like you so of course I was afraid of being so closely associated with you.”

“And now?”

“You’re my best friend,” he says automatically, absolutely no hesitation in his response. He looks Sherlock straight in the face, hoping the other man sees his earnestness. And if John didn’t know better, he would say Sherlock was blushing.

“Thank you, John.”

“You don’t need to thank me for my saying that you’re my best friend. You’ve earned that honesty and far more than that.”

He shifts uncomfortably and tries again to tug open the pickle jar. John holds out his arm, palm up, in an soft offer of help. Sherlock acquiesces with a silent shrug and crosses his arms.

“Please, Sherlock. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sherlock purses his lips and unconsciously rolls his shoulders, which only makes his lips purse tighter. “When have I been making these noises?”

“As hard as you’ve tried to stop them all you’ve been making little faces whenever you move unconsciously. And when you’re in your mind palace.”

He made another face, one that was more from annoyance than embarrassment or pain. “Mycroft said I’d stopped doing that.”

“Wait, Mycroft knows something about you before I do?” It was said half in jest, but only half.

“Hah. Mycroft knows plenty about me, I’d even hazard to say more than I do.”

“More than I do?”

Sherlock puts away the pickle jar and looks back with another pensive face. “Yes.”

That shouldn’t come as so much of a surprise to John, but it does. It really does. It annoys him, frustrates him, infuriates him. “I never did like Mycroft beating me in things. Knowing things before I did.”

“You and me both,” Sherlock scoffs, then sighs. “If you really want I can...help level the playing field. Tell you some things.”

John perks up and instantly forgets his anger. Before he can ask, Sherlock holds up his hand and looks at him with intensely dark blue eyes. “John…” he says. “Whatever I tell you, you must understand that absolutely none of it was your fault.”

The pit returns to his stomach and other parts of his body like sand falling into a pinpoint hole, an inkling into a black hole. “If you have to say that it obviously must be somehow my fault.”

The detective gets upset then, his face clouding over with thunderstorms. “That is exactly why I have not told you. I can’t live in this place having you blame yourself for things you had no control over, things you didn’t even know were happening! I cannot allow your guilt and especially not your pity! They are incredibly useless to me and I have put you through enough to allow you this kindness.”

“Sherlock, it’s not a kindness hiding your hurt from me!” John shouts, and it feels like he’s made some sort of admission, a pivotal confession though he’s not sure why he would ever want to hide these feelings. “I...I worry about you.” 

“I know you do, John,” he says, and he closes his eyes against the softness of his own voice. “I don’t...I don’t want you to worry any more than you have to. You- you have a daughter, for chrissake, I should be the least of your concerns.” He wipes his hand down his face and some kind of resolve twists and hardens his face. “No. I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m sorry, but I cannot, in good conscience, burden you with my problems when I have given you enough of your own.” He looks sullenly at his sandwich, like he’s completely lost his appetite.

“No, Sherlock, no. That’s not a good enough reason.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything! I’m obligated to my privacy, aren’t I? Just like the rest of the free world.”

“Says Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the man who can tell everything about a person from a single glance, the man who makes the thought of privacy a thing of the past.”

“That is a gross over-exaggeration of my skills and you know it.”

“Look,” John says, and he’s breathing heavily but he has to get this out before Sherlock closes up for good. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. You’re not obligated to. But don’t bottle up for my sake.”

The other man closes his mouth in that way he does when someone has pointed out something he doesn’t like, like he’s trying to swallow away his lips in the most rectangular way possible. He glances at John furtively, and John meets his gaze head on, though it frightens him to do so.

“You may have done horrible things to me, Sherlock, but so have I. To you. And God help me if you don't work through those emotions. Don't you understand that you’re almost my family at this point? No, sod that, you are my family now. You and Rosie and Mrs. Hudson, and I will not lose you to some perceived distance between us or some other bullshit. So talk, dammit, please. It doesn't have to be to me. Just don't -- don't leave me again, not like this.”

There’s a silence as the other man stares at him, bug-eyed and then with soft eyes and then sad ones. He looks at him with salt in his gaze and something about it is incredibly heartrending to John.

“I have scars.”

John’s almost cross-eyed at the startling confession. “Huh?”

“There are-- there are scars, down my back, and along my sides. A few inside me, I believe. And a-- a broken rib that didn’t heal in quite the way it was supposed to have. Among other things.”

John is taken back to Buckingham Palace and a beautiful marble man wearing a white sheet, the fabric slipping down his sculpted shoulder blades and stopping just short of what was sure to be a rounded bottom… The skin had been smooth then, smooth and unblemished except for a delightful smattering of pale freckles and stretch marks and a mole or two.

“When...Where did you…. How?” he stammers, his mouth filling with bitter saliva.

Sherlock looks at him calculatingly, obviously trying to decide just how honest and revealing to be. He takes a shallow sip of his cooled tea and purses his lips before responding, “It was during my two years away. The scene at St. Bart’s had to be carefully orchestrated, if I were to emerge alive. The enacted plan was the same as the original, in most parts. You and the others were to think I had died so that I could go about my business without interruption. Again, I had no idea it would affect you so, my absence. But Moriarty threw in something at the last minute, something I had not anticipated.

“There were three snipers, he said, one pointed at each of my friends.”

Sherlock stops here to look at John over the rim of his teacup, and John can only blink. “You mean…?”

“Yes. Yes to whatever you were meaning to say. You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would have been killed if I had failed to convincingly commit suicide. And that, before all other things, was the most unacceptable. I had planned to spend a few months at most dismantling Moriarty’s web, but it was much larger than I’d anticipated -- and, unfortunately, more dangerous. That’s where I got most of these scars. A knife wound from Ukraine. A broken hand in Brazil. They tried to scalp me in Crimea. Tried to bleach my fingers, once, in Canada. Cigarette burns, from everywhere. Whip lashes from Serbia. That was the last leg of operations I had to take down. There were others, but...”

“Another time,” John murmurs softly, dazedly, like his mind isn’t anywhere close to his body.

John’s almost overwhelmed with the inexplicable urge to touch them all, these marks. To slide the silk dressing robe from his shoulders, absorb the smells from the pale gray T-shirt, and kiss the pinkish-purple radiating warmth of the scars he could only imagine. He got those protecting me, he thinks.

Of all the possibilities John had considered when it came to Sherlock’s time away, somehow this had always escaped him. This idea that he had left for a reason, one that expanded further than his rift with Moriarty and the work and some misguided concept of adventure and heroism and individuality. He didn’t do any of that without regard for John; he did it for John.

“Do they still…”

“No. They healed long ago. I hardly feel them anymore.”

“Then what….why have you…”

“Why have I been making those noises?” And here is where Sherlock swallows and his eyes burn with something fiercer and angrier than his previous painful kindness. “Take a guess,” he says. “You’re smart enough to be able to figure it out. It’s not from my torture scars, which are long-since healed, if a bit agitated and poorly formed. I’ve done little in the way of physical activity in these recent weeks -- I’ve been too busy getting high and wallowing in nightmares to do anything so strenuous as that. Tell me, John, what hurt me?”

Who. John feels the answer wash over him in a wave of black sludge. There isn’t a what, and there’s not even a question of who. He knows who did this.

“Me?” he says, more brokenly than he’s ever heard himself speak.

“Yes, of course you, John! And I--” he takes a deep breath, actively removing the anger from his mind. “I don’t blame you for it. You were-- you were angry and grieving and you thought I had killed your wife and you were stopping me from killing someone else, so I don’t blame you.”

It sounds rehearsed, like he’s tried to convince himself over and over.

“Christ, Sherlock, what I did to you was inexcusable!” he shouts and stands from his seat with an explosive scrape of his chair. He starts pacing, wanting to tear out large chunks from his hair and set them on fire in his stomach, choking to death on his own burning body. “I could have-- should have-- stopped after that first punch. You were down and you weren’t going to hurt anyone, but I kept going. I didn’t want to stop. A bloody serial killer thought I’d done enough to you before I did, and I’m your best friend.” 

((And in his heart, maybe even something more than that -- which honestly only made his actions against the other man ten times more despicable.))

As true as that still was, he barely deserved to be in the same room as Sherlock now, let alone be his best friend or anything more.

“I didn’t want to tell you, John, and this is exactly why!” Sherlock shouts back, slowly than he should be able. “I can see what you’re doing, that little spiral of self-doubt you’re throwing yourself into. I’m not angry at you, and I never was, you absolute fool! Your guilt is unwarranted and undeserved! I don’t need your pity, and I do not want it!!”

“That’s all I can give you, Sherlock!”

The detective’s face looks stricken, and his hands curl with the pain of an invisible blow. He blinks rapidly to dull the sudden brightness in his eyes. “Get out,” he says, but John’s feet are layered with concrete and he can’t move.

“Get out, John, and don’t try to text me. I’ll text you. Please, just go.” Sherlock points with and long, pale arm and his head tucked into his own chest, and his voice is as soft a plea as he’s ever heard.

And John knows, if he leaves now Sherlock will never open up to him again, never trust him or look at him the same way ever again. And that is-- that is unacceptable in so many unspeakable ways, he’s dizzy with it.

“Please,” they say at the same time. Sherlock continues, barely even acknowledging they had spoken together. “We’ll still be friends, if that’s what you’re worried about. I find it very hard to let you go, even for a few hours.”

“Then why do you want me to go now?” Now, when he wants to, needs to stay more than he ever has before? Now, when he can feel his chest physically ache with the idea of being separated from this man?

“Because-- because--”

“Because what? Because you got scared? That’s the point of being vulnerable, Sherlock. The brave part comes when you let me stay and you talk to me.”

Suddenly all the tension drains out of his shoulders like an unspooling ball of thread. Sherlock drops back into his chair with trademark drama flaring up his curls and buries his face in his hands. They scrub across his cheeks and pull at his eyes, tangle the hairs of his eyebrows. “You’re exhausting.”

John wants to tell him that he’s the exact same way but he knows that that’s likely what Sherlock is expecting from him and he decidedly doesn’t want to live up to any of Sherlock’s meager expectations for him right now. Especially not the ones of him leaving the detective now when he’s never needed to stay more.

“Come on, then,” he says, offering a hand to the detective slumped at the kitchen table. His face is serious and quietly furious, but the fury is very clearly not directed at Sherlock and almost entirely at himself. There is a level of no-nonsenseness in his countenance that even Sherlock in his most stubborn moments cannot deny, so he places his palm in John’s and lets himself be pulled upward and across the living room until he’s sitting on his own bed and John is rooting around in the bathroom for an old First-Aid kit.

“It’s okay, you know,” John says as he kneels to look in the sink cabinets. Sherlock looks up at him, cradling his ribs openly, and can’t understand what John meant. “To blame me,” explains John. He stands up and brushes off the knees of his trousers before bending back down at the waist and pulling out a dusty old First Aid kit that apparently hasn’t been used since John was living at 221B. John gives Sherlock a glaring, scolding look and the other man looks appropriately sheepish under his doctor’s gaze.

“I told you, John, it wasn’t your fault. I deserved it.”

“Bullshit!” John snaps, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he’s calm enough to not yell. “You deserved none of what I did to you, and I ought to be crawling for your forgiveness right about two months ago.”

“I don’t deserve your pity either,” he murmurs so softly that John can’t actually hear it without piecing together the scattered syllables. 

It dawns on him, then, what Sherlock is upset over. ‘That’s all I can give you’ he’d said, and what a horrible thing to say. For Sherlock to think he wasn’t worth anymore than pity, it broke John’s heart all over again. “Sherlock,” he said, voice cracking. “You deserve more than my pity, and you don’t have it. I don’t-- I don’t pity you; I couldn’t do that. I just feel so sorry. And I want you to know, if I ever try to hurt you like that, I want you to fight back with all your might. Kill me, I don’t care. No one should ever put their hands on you like I did, especially not me.”

There are tears in Sherlock’s eyes that he’s not bothering to hide anymore. “I could never kill you, John. Even at the expense of my own life. You know that.”

“Love, you have to. If it comes to that, you have to.”

“Then don’t ever let it come to that! Don’t you dare, put your hands on me like that, ever. Don’t you dare make me hurt you, ever! That’s the most selfish thing you’ve ever asked of me. I’ve died for you, three times, I’ve ran and leaped and killed and burned and cried for you, fuck, I even planned your fucking wedding, but I will not do that!”

“Alright, love. I-- I won’t put you in a position like that. I-- I honestly can’t even imagine doing anything like that again; I can’t imagine having done it in the first place… God, I’m such a fucking monster…” John drops the tube of ointment he’d been about to rub on Sherlock’s shoulders and weakly hides his face in his hands. He has to stop running, needs to, but the pain is overwhelming.

Sherlock’s breath shudders as he moves himself off the bed and onto the floor where John has crumpled in on himself. The detective takes John’s hands from his face gently and hold them on his knees. “John. You aren’t a monster.”

“Something worse than that, then?”

“No,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, but says with a soft smile. “A human, more like.”

John sits in his misery for only a few more moments before squeezing Sherlock’s hands and drying his face. He picks up the tube of ointment again once they’ve settled back on the bed, John straddling the back of Sherlock’s thighs as the detective lies comfortably on his stomach, and gestures vaguely to Sherlock’s body. “Can I...Can I?”

The other man shifts carefully with a mild grimace on his face and says, “Of course. What kind of idiot would I be to refuse service from my doctor?”

“Perhaps a wise one.”

His fingers move more delicately than they ever have -- except for the possible exception of the first time he held Rosie -- as he grips the hem of Sherlock’s T-shirt between two fingers, and when he nods his head slowly, curls bobbing with the movement, John tugs off the shirt as gently as he can.

And when he finally sees what’s there beneath that shirt, the pain starts anew in a fresh, terrifying wave.

Sherlock said there were scars, numerous and healed and creative, but there is a fine difference between hearing that sort of thing and actually seeing the remnants of torture on one’s best friend. The detective looks at John thoughtfully for a moment, assessing whether or not John’s about to freak out again, and comfortably settles back against the bed once he’s certain the other man won’t do anything rash.

Some of the bruises are swollen -- those ones definitely from John’s fists -- and his lower ribs seem just the tiniest bit off-center, like one or two had broken and not healed correctly. There are light pink circles dotting his shoulder blades that look like cigarette burns, long and thin lines that could be the mark of a knife, the knotted skin of Mary’s bullet wound clotting on his left side. All of this and so much more until the patches of smooth, unaltered skin are sparse and starved for space. 

He wants to kiss it, kiss it all. The scars, the smooth patches. His arching shoulder blades, the dipping lines of his abdomen, his collarbone, the knob of his neck, the bowl of his spine, the vertebrae, his shoulders, his arms, his fingertips. His lips gravitate toward the skin splayed out in front of him, but he holds himself back. He can’t do anything, anything, without asking him first, never again.

“Sherlock, can I--”

The detective moves his head from where it’d been relaxed, cheek to the soft covers of the bed with his eyes closed trustingly, and turns to look over his shoulder at John. “Can you what?”

“Can I...Can I kiss you?” He doesn’t lean towards his lips, carefully leaning back from his skin but still letting his fingers ghost soothingly over Sherlock’s hips.

“Wh-what? Why?” his voice is quiet, barely audible, but filled with shock, and his eyes are wide. He shifts further onto his side, but still doesn’t move off his stomach. 

There are so many things he could say, so many reasons to give, but all he can bring himself to do is smile, warmly, and say, “Because I may not have gotten to take care of these wounds when they were fresh, but I can do my best now to heal what they’ve left behind.”

Sherlock scoffs lightly, but without his usual bite. “So you want to kiss it better, is that what this is?”

“Yes. The scars out here and the scars up here.” He bends down slowly, gently, giving Sherlock plenty of time to push him away, before he presses a soft kiss against the salty skin of the detective’s forehead.

He sits silently for an endless few moments, letting the kiss dry on his forehead as he thinks. “What exactly will these kisses mean to you, John? Are they being administered by a practicing doctor or a concerned friend?” Or--? John thinks.

“Both. More than both. I don’t really know anymore. How do you want me to feel about it?”

“I’d rather not have such influence over your feelings.”

But you do. I would do anything for you if you just said the word, John realizes, and the realization knocks the wind out of him.

These are not best friend feelings. These are far bigger and scarier than he could have ever imagined, far more joyous than he ever dared hope -- or possibly more catastrophic than he ever could have feared.

“Well, tough luck with that I suppose. I rather find that I’d do or be anything you need, anything you want -- as long as it’s in your best interest. You have an incredible influence over me, Mr. Holmes, and there’s not much you can do about it. So if you don’t want to exercise your control over me I’m just going to start making decisions I think will benefit you the most.” John’s smirking, but there’s something incredibly vulnerable in his eyes, in the way he’s lightly stroking Sherlock’s arm as the man beneath him shifts and breathes, shifts and breathes, thoughts tumbling so obviously behind those impossibly complex eyes. A word from Sherlock at that moment could build him up into the happiest man in the universe or set him adrift with nothing really anchoring him to the world.

“Then I suppose you can be...more than both, if that remains...agreeable, to you…” Sherlock murmurs, a soft, shy smile cresting over his face.

And John tries to hold it back, but after this incredibly torrential night he can’t stop the blindingly bright way his face smiles. He’s fucking beaming, so glad that Sherlock has finally, finally let him in, to stay. Maybe John had already been in Sherlock’s heart in some capacity, but whatever position he’d been in had caused the other man so much pain -- and now, John could rest comfortably, knowing that Sherlock knew he would never again do anything to hurt him. Not even if it meant losing his life. Sherlock had done everything humanly possible to protect Sherlock, and now it was John’s turn.

The smile dims, though, as he ducks his head down to place a kiss on a cigarette burn that looks about two years old. He can’t get over how much pain Sherlock’s been through for him, to keep him safe, and all for what? A self-righteous best friend who can barely even admit -- a beating and two fucking years later -- that he appreciates what Sherlock did and might be willing to reciprocate. And what if Sherlock got over any kind of...romantic, feelings he’d ever had for John?

John’s only just starting to understand the depth of these feelings and he can’t bear the thought of having already lost Sherlock’s heart to his own stupidity. Dear God, what if Sherlock found someone else and he had to help plan their wedding? Now he fully understands why Sherlock had added that to the list of painful things he’d done for John -- if he ever had to plan Sherlock’s wedding to another man, another person, he’d fucking wilt away like a weed that’s been doused with poison, it would hurt so much.

But this isn’t about him, as much as he wishes he could proclaim his burgeoning feelings at the top of his lungs and then make love to this beautiful man he held in his arms while erasing all the pain and hurt and scars from his brilliant mind. That can wait until Sherlock has healed on his own, has healed enough to be able to make a thoroughly conscious decision when it comes to getting involved with him. Anything at this stage would feel too manipulative on John’s part, so soon after abusing Sherlock both mentally and physically, however obliviously or unintentionally. 

He’ll be happy, now, fucking ecstatic, that Sherlock is letting him kiss his shoulders and his scars, is letting him see something so intensely private that this could be on par with sex in that mad genius’s mind. He’ll take what he can get, like a dog begging for scraps, because that’s honestly more than he deserves. He’d never realized what a good man Sherlock was, so noble and ridiculously forgiving.

“I can hear you thinking, John,” the devil murmurs, looking softly into John’s eyes. “You think I’m too forgiving. That I’m a surprisingly good person. I can assure you, it’s really only something that happens around you. I am far less forgiving to others, and I do make an effort around you to be...better.”

“Right on the mark,” John chuckles quietly, brushing feathery kisses along a particularly narrow knife scar that traces a long line from the nape of Sherlock’s neck to his left hip. “But I think you’re a better person than you let yourself realize.”

“I could say the same about someone else in this room.”

John sighs and presses a firm kiss against the knot of Mary’s bullet. If he ever gets a chance to do this again (and he prays to God that he does) he’s going to lavish attention to that spot until the scar cosmically stops existing -- or at least the pain from it does. Something tells John that Sherlock is already halfway there, without his help. “You have forgiven me too easily, Sherlock. I can’t say I’m not ridiculously grateful -- I am, doggedly so -- but I-- I don’t want to put any sort of pressure on you. It frightens me, how easily I could ruin everything again.”

“You won’t, John. As long as you never let me go, you won’t.”

John smiles again, and this time it’s purer, lighter. Sherlock may not have admitted to any sort of lasting romantic feelings, but he did sort of admit to a something and that was all he could ever ask for.

“I promise, that for as long as you want me to, I will never, ever, let you go.”

“Well, I have to admit -- you shall be stuck here for quite some time.”

“How long is ‘quite some time’?” he asks, nuzzling his cheek into Sherlock’s shoulder and then dragging his lips along the curve of a shoulder blade.

“Quite possibly forever. We’ll have to see.”

John’s grin splits apart his face until he can barely push his lips together to kiss the other man’s vertebrae. “That is quite a long time.”

“Well, you do have quite a lot to make up to me. Let’s see if forever is long enough to get it all done.”

“I think I’ll need a little longer than that.”

“Nothing’s longer than forever, John.”

“Shut up, it’s romantic.”

“Is that what this is? A romance?”

John blushes and kisses the skin just above the waistband of his pajama bottoms before moving upward again. He whispers into Sherlock’s neck, “If you’d like it to be.”

“Well after everything I’ve done I should hope so,” Sherlock says jokingly, but with a twinkle in his eye that makes John think Sherlock is about weep (hopefully with joy). “What happened to being ‘not gay’?”

“Ach, who cares about semantics when I’m living with a beautiful mad man who jumps off buildings and leaves kidneys in the fridge? As far as I care, I’m Sherlocksexual. I am grovel-at-Sherlock’s-feet-until-I-die-sexual.”

“That’s a thing for you?” he teases.

“No, but it could very easily become my thing,” John winks. This flirting feels so natural, so casual, John isn’t sure how he hadn’t picked it up before.

Silence blankets the room, and John kisses every bit of Sherlock’s skin he can reach before rubbing the ointment into the kisses. “Does this feel alright?”

“Mm, it does actually. I can feel my back aching less.”

“I’m glad.”

John reaches the top of Sherlock’s back and he starts trickling kisses down his neck, nibbling on his ear, the hollow below the lobe, teething at the delightful mole on the back of his neck.

“Am I overstepping?”

“No, no....John, please…”

“Please what?”

“I don’t...I…”

“Do you want me to keep going, or do you want me to leave?”

“Anything but leaving, John. I like this. Just let me…”

John lifts up and lets Sherlock roll over, his curls falling back from his face to reveal his stunning eyes. “That’s much better,” he murmurs. Sherlock tugs on John’s thighs so that he’s sitting on him again. John’s fascinated with how comfortably he fits in Sherlock’s lap.

They stare at each other a moment, neither sure who should break their enchanted gaze. It’s all so new, and it feels so fragile, but somehow John knows this connection is the strongest, most unbreakable thing in the world, the most amazing and precious thing he will never let go of.

”I’d do anything for you.”

“I’ve done everything for you.”

John grins -- he can taste the smile on Sherlock’s lips. He’s never had anything more delicious.


End file.
